


Eyre Apparent

by roamingbadger



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (but you will have to be the judge of whether or not I've succeeded...), F/M, I started writing this with one goal and one goal alone:, Modern AU, also a vendetta against corsets begins here, also prepare for a bit of mutual pining, and it certainly will exist in Fitz's, jane eyre au, make Leo Fitz into Edward Rochester in a believable way 2k16, more like the anachronistic boating excursion down the Thames?, not gonna lie, now sit back and enjoy the wild vaguely historical and also vaguely inaccurate roller coaster ride, okay maybe it exists in Will's head, unfounded jealousy over a non-existent love triangle, who even knows anymore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:05:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7214353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingbadger/pseuds/roamingbadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she agrees to play the part of Jane Eyre in her local living history festival, Jemma Simmons has one thing on her mind: the paycheck. She soon discovers that she has more in common with Jane than she thought. Featuring a rather young Mr. Rochester, his startlingly blue eyes . . . and corsets. So many corsets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eyre Apparent

**Author's Note:**

> This one is dedicated to my fellow members of Team Biochem and our very worthy opponents on Team Engineering! I hope you all enjoy! :))))

* * *

**Eyre Apparent**

      Jemma didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

      She shifted from left to right, analyzing her reflection in a floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror. Starched-stiff underclothes from the early Victorian era covered her from chest to knee. Ironically, they exposed  _ less _ of her skin than the complete twenty-first century outfit she’d come in wearing, a breathy sundress to counterbalance the hot weather. She glanced longingly at the corner of the room, where said dress lay abandoned in a pool of golden sunshine. 

_       Cry. Definitely cry _ .

      Movement in the mirror made her look over her shoulder. Despite the heat, her skin grew cold at what she saw. “Oh, you have got to be joking.”

      “Sorry,” said the woman helping Jemma, a tall American named Bobbi. The sympathy in her voice sounded real enough--as genuine as the nineteenth-century whalebone corset dangling from her fingertips. “Even I’m not that sadistic.”

      “Why do I get the feeling you’ll still make me wear it?”

      “Rules are rules.” Bobbi stepped closer and raised an eyebrow until Jemma, sighing, lifted her arms straight out from her sides, allowing the instrument of torture to be strapped into place. 

_       I’m getting paid for this,  _ Jemma reminded herself as Bobbi tightened the stays at her back. She’d repeated the mantra all morning, but somehow, it was less effective when the breath was being squeezed from her lungs.

      Once her task was complete, Bobbi flicked her eyes up to meet Jemma’s in the mirror. A small smile tugged at her lips. “That bad?”

Jemma’s glare grew even darker. 

      “Yikes. Then you’re really not going to like the next part.” Bobbi no longer attempted to hide her grin as she turned aside, crossing to a semi-permanent wardrobe that had been erected for the duration of the festival. Jemma watched in the mirror as Bobbi pawed through hangers, muttering under her breath, until: “A-ha! Found it.” 

      The dark blue monstrosity that emerged in her arms did not help Jemma’s mood. Long-sleeved, heavy-skirted, and--was that-- _ wool?  _ In July? “Are you sure that’s period appropriate?” she asked, her voice coming out as a squeak.

      “It is if you’re playing a governess. Now, come on. Arms up.”

      Jemma chewed her lip.  _ I’m getting paid for this. _ She raised her arms.

#

      Some minutes later, her toilette complete, Jemma followed Bobbi downstairs to the ground level of North Lees Hall, her temporary home for the next three days. Through the open front doors of the hall, she could read the banners lining the lawn outside:  _ Welcome to Festiveyre! A Jane Eyre Festival.  _ Another, smaller sign read  _ Pride of Hathersage. _ Jemma snorted. 

      Not a lot of competition for that dubious distinction.

      “Don’t snort,” Bobbi called over her shoulder as they reached the ground floor. “It’s unladylike.”

Jemma was already beginning to sweat beneath her wool. “I’ll show you unladylike.”

      “Bob!” The interruption came at an opportune moment. A short man sped over to them from the corner of the room, where he’d been conferring with a few other festival employees. He practically skidded to a halt beside them, trying too late to affect a casual nonchalance. “Morning.”

      “Out with it, Hunter.”

      “Not bad, right?” He spread his arms in a gesture that encompassed the entire hall. “It’s got such a . . .  _ festive air. _ ” He raised his eyebrows. 

      Jemma thought she could hear Bobbi’s teeth grinding. 

      “Get it? Festiveyre?”

      “What’s the problem?”

      “ _ Really?  _ Nothing? That was a good . . . one . . .” He stopped as Bobbi’s expression became more severe, holding up his palms. “Right. Fine. Yes, there’s a problem. A teeny, tiny, very minor, slightly-huge problem.”

      Jemma felt hope swell in her chest--or would have, had her corset left room for swelling of any kind. Perhaps they’d have to cancel. If they cancelled, they’d pay her anyway, right? At least for the first day.  _ Please, one day of respite . . .  _

      “Our child seems to be a few years too old. And by a few, I mean . . .” Hunter winced. “Nine.”

      Bobbi rolled her eyes, relief plain in her face. “Hunter, will you ever read the damn book? Adele  _ is _ nine.”

      “I know. Ours is eighteen.”

      “What?” Bobbi looked ready to grab him by the collar of his shirt, but he stepped out of reach just in time. “Lance Hunter . . . what did you do?”

      “It wasn’t my fault this time! It was the agency! Look, you can ask her yourself--” He continued to plead his case as Bobbi marched to the other side of the hall, leaving Jemma standing alone at the base of the stairs. She fought to contain her hope, following them across the stone floor with her eyes. Surely there would be no festival without a child. She couldn’t be a governess without a child to govern, and you couldn’t have a Jane Eyre festival without a governess. 

_       Sorry, Pride of Hathersage _ , Jemma thought with a flash of glee. She could take her five hundred pounds and be free. Truly free. Sans corset, sans Festiveyre, sans . . . she bit back a frown as she thought of home. 

_       Yes, free of that, too,  _ she thought, and felt a prick of familiar guilt.

      “Change of plan.” Somehow, Bobbi was already back, clamping her fingers around Jemma’s elbow and dragging her bodily across the room. “You’re a chaperone, not a governess.”

      “But--how--?”

      “Artistic interpretation,” Bobbi said. 

      If it weren’t for the corset, Jemma’s response would have been quite unladylike indeed. She opted for raised eyebrows instead. 

      “Look,” said Bobbi, “I caught three servants using their cell phones, we’re already missing Blanche, and our Rochester is a teenaged Scotsman. I think we can throw authenticity out the window.”

      “Any chance that includes my corset?”

      Bobbi shook her head, still tugging Jemma by the elbow. “The corset stays.”

      “Ha! Good one, Bob,” said Hunter, appearing on Jemma’s other side. She glanced between the two of them, feeling her previous hope dragging on the floor like her woolen hemline.

      Bobbi let her go at last when they reached the opposite side of the Entrance Hall, where the eighteen-year-old Adele was leaning against the wall playing Candy Crush. Bobbi reached out and snatched away her phone without preamble. 

      “Hey! I was about to clear level seventy!”

      “And I was told you’d be a nine-year-old girl with pigtails and a commercial acting career,” Bobbi returned, pocketing the phone. “You’ll get it back tonight when the festival closes.”

      Adele narrowed her eyes, but wisely decided Bobbi was not in a mood to be argued with. Her gaze slid past Bobbi to Jemma, and her face transformed into a smile. “Let me guess. Governess?”

      “Chaperone. But, yes.” Jemma didn’t even have the heart to feel offended that she already looked the part. Heavy dress, sweaty forehead, a few strings of hair coming loose--she didn’t need the gilded mirror to know she’d been well cast. 

      Adele, on the other hand, looked as cool as a summer breeze despite the fact that she’d been crammed into a pink silk dress designed to fit an actual child. Her dark brown curls, cut to her chin, were flatteringly coiffed, albeit the furthest thing from period appropriate after her iPhone. Beside Jemma, Bobbi was eying Adele up and down as well, with more consternation than admiration in her expression. She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like  _ I’m getting paid for this _ . 

      Out loud, Bobbi said, “Get her hair in a ribbon.” She seemed to be directing this at Jemma. “Orientation’s in the drawing room in five.” Jemma opened her mouth in shock, but Bobbi was already turning away and speeding across the room. 

      Hunter waited only a moment longer to add, “Good luck, girls,” before following on Bobbi’s heels.

      Adele turned to Jemma with a frown. “Damn. This is more serious than I thought.” She spoke with a strange accent, something almost-American-but-not-quite.

      Jemma felt her own brow crease in concern. “Didn’t you get all the emails? The pre-readings?” She herself had spent many a long night poring over the information, memorizing the details about her nineteenth-century life that she hadn’t already known from history lessons. (She’d actually rather enjoyed herself.)

      Adele shrugged. “Nope. The only email I got was from my agent. She said I’d get a thousand pounds if I dressed up as a kid for three days.”

_       A thousand pounds? _ Jemma’s lungs constricted, no corset intervention necessary this time.  _ Twice as much _ . For the part of a child. And she’d planned this weekend so carefully, asked for time off from her other jobs, organized every excruciating minute to maximize her summer earnings. To be free.

      “Are you okay?” All traces of the strange accent were gone now as Adele leaned closer, waving her hand in Jemma’s line of vision. “You just got even paler,” she added, now plainly American. 

      “Fine. I’m f--fine.” Jemma held out a hand to steady herself against the wall and found its gray stone cool and soothing. “Where are you from?”

      Adele blinked, but pretended not to notice the abrupt transition. Instead, her expression became almost . . . guilty. “Oops. I forgot the accent.” She twisted her hands together. “You won’t tell, will you?” 

      “Um . . . no?”

      Adele smiled. “Thanks.” The accented tones were back, something like a parody of posh English that landed nowhere close. “I’m Chinese-American, but I’m not supposed to be. I told them I’m from Sussex. How’s this?”

      “Oh. Um. It’s good,” Jemma lied.

      Adele smiled. “I’m Daisy, by the way.” She stuck out her hand.

      Jemma shook it quickly. “I’m Jemma.” When her hand fell back to her side, she said, “It’s funny. I’ve been thinking of you as Adele.”

      Daisy frowned. “Who’s Adele?”

      “Adele Varens. You know. The little girl in  _ Jane Eyre _ .”

      “Oh.” Daisy’s face cleared as she nodded. “Right. Isn’t that the one with Michael Fassbender?” 

      Jemma stared. 

      “Girls! Orientation! Now!”

      Bobbi’s voice made them both leap to attention. Exchanging guilty smiles, Jemma and Daisy followed Bobbi and a cluster of others into a small, heavily decorated room beside the Entrance Hall. The few chairs in the room had long ago been filled. Jemma crossed to stand beside the window instead, Daisy in her wake.

      “Right,” said Bobbi, waving for everyone’s attention. The chattering volunteers fell silent, while a few bored servants in period clothing blinked like cows at pasture. “Okay, people, we have one hour until opening and a lot of information to cover, so bear with me--”

      She was interrupted almost immediately as a straggler entered the room and all eyes, including Jemma’s, turned in his direction. Under the scrutiny of the entire group, his face became about as red as humanly possible, flushing up from the base of his neck to his ears. In a matter of seconds, his scarlet cheeks made a stark contrast to the soft cream of his cravat and the heavy black of his ill-fitting greatcoat. “Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand as if to block his blush from view. 

_       Scottish _ . So this was the Mr. Rochester to her Jane. Jemma once again found herself grateful to the corset for stifling a laugh.  _ Teenaged indeed _ . He was probably the same age as her--technically, nineteen was still teenaged--but his boyish features and the oversized coat did nothing to help his youthful appearance. He was handsome, yes, but in a pale, blushing, shy sort of way. Not a brooding, mature . . . Michael Fassbendery sort of way. 

      As if sensing her attention, his gaze jumped from the carpet to her face. She looked away quickly, back to Bobbi, but not before noticing that she was wrong in one respect. He did have something in common with past Mr. Rochesters: a pair of striking blue eyes. 

#

      Don’t break character. Try not to use anachronistic terms. Be polite to all guests. Make things fun. Be appropriate. Remember your pre-readings . . . 

      Jemma began to tune out after that, distracted by the heat of the sun on her back and the rustling of Daisy’s dress at her side. When people began to move around her, she spent several moments returning to herself, trying to remember where she was and why she couldn’t quite breathe.

      “Jemma.” Bobbi appeared, parting the tide of employees leaving the room. “Here’s your itinerary for today.” She turned to Daisy. “And yours.”

      “Let me guess. They match.” Daisy’s lips quirked up in a smile as she took both slips of paper from Bobbi’s hands, only to frown a moment later. “Or not . . .”

      Bobbi shifted enough to reveal a new employee behind her. The woman, small, dark, and blank of expression, moved nearer without making a sound. This was all the more impressive when Jemma realized that she wore a black silk dress, long-sleeved and shining in the sunlight. Her only adornment was a white lace apron traditionally worn by a nurse or lady’s maid. The nurse--of course. In  _ Jane Eyre _ , Adele Varens had a French nurse named Sophie. 

      If this new arrival saw anything amusing in the idea of playing nursemaid to a young woman of eighteen, she didn’t show it. Instead, she looked both Daisy and Jemma up and down with an expression more effective than air conditioning at bringing a chill to the room. 

      “May is your nursemaid, so you have a few sessions outside with her today,” Bobbi told Daisy. “When Jemma is paired with Fitz.”

      “Fitz?”

      “Rochester,” Bobbi clarified, sweeping her hand as if brushing away invisible cobwebs from the conversation. She turned back to Daisy. “How’s your French?”

      “Um . . . tres . . . buono?”

      “Right. English it is.” Bobbi’s lips grew thin as she pulled a notebook from her pocket and scribbled a note. 

      The nursemaid made them all jump by speaking up rather suddenly--in Mandarin. Jemma turned to Daisy in surprise, only to find the other girl’s face lighting up in excitement and comprehension. A second later, Daisy was responding at a rapid pace, and the nurse--May--wore a satisfied smile. 

      Bobbi’s eyebrows went up in startled admiration. “Even better,” she said. “Fits with our theme.”

      “I didn’t realize ‘completely inaccurate’ could be a theme,” said Hunter, appearing out of nowhere as he had a tendency to do. Before May could turn her icy glare on him, he held up both hands. “I’m just saying.”

      “Hunter. Shut up.” Bobbi didn’t even glance his way. “Everybody okay?” She cast a significant glance at the schedules still in Daisy’s hand. “Any questions?”

_       Okay? _ Jemma hadn’t even looked. Daisy handed the itinerary over, eyes wide with apprehension. It read:

_9:00_  -  _Opening -_   _South Lawn_

_10:00_  -  _Lessons -_ _Study_

_12:00 -_ _Luncheon -_ _Great Hall_

_1:00 -_ _Lessons -_ _Study_

_3:00 -_ _Tea_ _South - Lawn_

_5:00 -_ _Closing_  -  _Festiveyre tent_

_6:00 -_ _Dinner_  -  _Employee lounge_

      “Any questions?”

      Jemma raised her eyes from the schedule to Bobbi, who was watching her with kind eyes yet an impatient tightness to her lips. 

_       What if I’m terrible? What if I’m awkward? What if I forget?  _ “No,” said Jemma over the riot of her thoughts. 

      “Excellent,” said Hunter before Bobbi could speak. “Let the chaos begin.”

* * *

 


End file.
